


Tales Through Time

by KaelaByte



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Faunlock, Fawnlock, Gen, I think it might be!, cabin in the woods, is this fluff?, woo first not depressing story!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelaByte/pseuds/KaelaByte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After inheriting his grandmother's cabin John find's himself face to face with the stories that he grew up with. But the beings of the woods are not always benevolent, can he truly trust the creature that has wandered into his life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales Through Time

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd

It had been years since John had visited the old cottage near Lyndhurst. Stepping in the door was like stepping back in time; if he closed his eyes he could almost imagine his grandmother crooning to him and Harriet.

His grandmother had been a gifted storyteller, effortlessly weaving tales of forest imps and face to ensnare the imagination. For years the two of them had come down here in the summer to stay with her, each one easily finding their niche in the small one room home. Each day Harry would wander off to the woods, coming back with stories of elves and giants she had encountered while wandering. John never believed her but grandmum did, always praising her for her quick wits in getting out of faerie rings or some such.

John was always more content to stay near the cottage. He loved exploring as much as the next young boy, but for him the true gauge of how well the trip went was measured by the number of new stories he had managed to collect while helping with the chores around the house.

As they washed dishes or chopped wood for the old stove, she would tell him stories that she always saved just for these moments. It was at these quiet times near mid morning that she would get a faraway look in her eyes as she told him of the fauns and gnomes that populated the area. Of course john knew the stories were just made up, but for that second he would allow himself to settle into the tale, the words wrapping around him as warm and comforting as the old quilts his grandmother kept in the cottage.

Each story was prefaced with an insistence that every word she spoke was true, the earnest look on her face nearly enough to convince him.

A rumble of thunder brought John back to the present, memories fading away until all that lay before him was a simple house. Stepping indoors he quickly placed his bags down near the small table, turning back to shut the door before it could start raining. 

The place looked exactly the same as he remembered, flowered wallpaper plastered on the walls, offset by the wood paneling his grandfather had insisted on when the cabin had been built. Off to his left was the kitchen table, just barely big enough for four people; and then only if you didn’t mind your knees knocking into someone every time you shifted to reach for the salt. 

the living room doubled as the sitting area, a small bed pushed into one corner. On top the old patchwork quilt his grandmother had used still laying there, turned up neatly as it had been while she was still alive. 

Smiling a little at the memory he made his way over the linen chest at the foot of the bed.

Tucked away inside were a collection of blankets his grandmother had made throughout the years. Reaching down he sifted through them until he found the old green and blue one he had used as a child. The starburst pattern had frayed over the years, but it was still well maintained thanks to his grandmother's insistence that they treat everything with respect, no matter how small it might seem.

John had kept that motto throughout the years, often going behind others to clean up messes that he could have avoided altogether had he simply let it be. In fact, that was part of the reason he was now out here, isolated from the city to try and cope with day to day life again.

Sighing, he sat down on the bed, a small cloud of dust puffing into the air as the mattress groaned beneath him. Settling his cane next to him he carefully laid back against the wall, shuffling little by little until he could pull his legs up in front of him. Clasping his hands around his knees he allowed his mind to wander back to the sun-scorched sand and dry desert days that he spent so long trying to forget.

He had enlisted straight out of school; vague dreams of glory only half-solidified as he thought of being the man to save the men on the front lines. Unfortunately he hadn’t realized just how close to the front lines he would be getting. 

His first few assignments went without a hitch, although his ideas of what it would be like quickly lost their rose-tint after the first few months. 

All around him lay men dying, several calling out for friends, family, a few even begging for their gods to help them - or take them away from this, they weren’t too picky at that point.

A sudden noise pulled John from his reverie and he started up from the bed, eyes narrowing at the small cottage door where/.. eyes narrowing at the small cottage door. For several moments all was silent, then he heard the noise again, this time he was able to identify it as the cracking of a branch, not far from the not far into the woods just outside the small well kept lawn. 

Grabbing his coat John stepped outside, feeling with his left hand to make sure that his pistol/revolver was still nestled into his waistband. It was unlikely that anyone was out this far into the woods, but you never knew what wild animals were lurking about, growing brave with the absence of most humans.

Carefully John worked his way into the woods, too keyed up to stay and wait to see what might come bounding out at him. Only a few steps in he heard another crack, this time off to his left accompanies accompanied by a series of small rustled and crunches as whatever it was darted back towards the house. John sighed with relief, nearly laughing at how worked up he had gotten. A flash of white assure him that the intruder had been no more than a faun. Young and struggling its way through the underbrush no doubt, not quite old enough to realize that humans meant danger.

John strode back into the house, relaxing for the first time since he had heard the news weeks before. His grandmother may not be here any longer, but there was no reason for the house to hold anything but good memories.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. John prepared a small dinner of tinned beans and toast before tossing the washing up in the sink and setting to cleaning out the house. Several hours of cleaning out old items, sorting those he would keep and those he wouldn't, and even more time dusting and airing out the linens and quilts buried in the chest at the foot of the bed; finally the house was back to the pristine cleanliness he remembered from his childhood. Every surface gleamed, scrubbed clean with a precision that can only be learned from cuffs around the ear from an impatient gran, or the stern barks of a military superior. The house looked well loved and well used  
the house looked spic and span, but no less loved and used for its spotlessness.

Finally, John took a break, gulping down one of the water bottles he had brought with him as he realized he had forgotten to pump water for the evening from the old well out back. Resigning himself to an early morning of chores he laid down and fell asleep once again surrounded by the soft sounds of ow.. by animals rustling and owls hooting as they went about their nightly business.


End file.
